


Drabbles and Prompts

by taggianto



Category: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cabinlock, Fluff, Gen, Kid Fic, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Tumblr
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-02 22:36:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/374112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taggianto/pseuds/taggianto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of various prompts and drabbles, mostly having to do with BBC Sherlock, Doctor Who and Cabin Pressure. Basically, anything I write that doesn't fall into my Mormor universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Gen Sherlock: Slip of the Tongue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tell me about the time when Sherlock made a very, very bad Doctor Who reference

“Any ideas?” Lestrade stood with his hands on his hips, watching the self-proclaimed consulting detective as he crawled around. They were on the dance floor of a seedy nightclub, the sort that didn’t ask too many questions when you walked in the door. The night before, dim lights and thumping bass had served as perfect cover for some crime, motive unknown. Now, by the early morning sunlight, the club had a distinctly alien look about it. Countless bottle caps and various discarded garments cluttered the chairs and seats around the edges of the room. The conventional odor of sweat and cheap beer mingled with the new metallic sting of blood.

“So far… thirteen.” Sherlock Holmes was crawling on his hands and knees, looking over the floor surrounding body splayed out before him. Male, 24 or 25, single stab-wound to the chest, no weapon in sight. Wholly unremarkable but for the fact that someone had meticulously removed both of the man’s ring fingers.

Crouched beside Sherlock as ever was John Watson, ex-army-doctor turned consulting-detective-consultant. “Thriteen?” he questioned, surprised.

“…and a half. Oh, what’s this?” Swiftly, Sherlock reached his hand down the front of the dead man’s pants.

“Sherlock!” Lestrade objected. Sherlock ignored him as he started to pull something out.

“What the…” John started, embarrassed.

“Always bring a banana to a party…” muttered Sherlock under his breath as he held the yellow fruit up for his two companions to see. Both John and Lestrade stared at him, dumbstruck. They glanced at each other and then back to Sherlock, not understanding what they had just heard.

Lestrade found his voice first. “I’m sorry… what?”

Sherlock gave him his are-you-really-that-thick look. “He had the banana stuffed down his trousers, obviously this means that…”

“Hang on!” John interrupted. Sherlock blinked at him, confused. “What did you just say?” John asked, sternly.

Sherlock squinted at him. “Obviously this means that…”

“Oh don’t play dumb with me, Sherlock. Before that. You just quoted Doctor Who!”

Sherlock looked away quickly. “I don’t know what you mean,” he added, busying himself with a determined study of the ring-finger-less left hand.

“ _Always bring a banana to a party!_ ” John repeated with emphasis. “I was just watching that episode last night while you prattled on about the impossibilities of spatio-temporal hyperlinks!”

Sherlock continued to ignore him with resolute silence. John stared at his flatmate for a moment, then turned his head and caught Lestrade’s eye. In an instant the two were doubled over with laughter.

“Puerile…” Sherlock muttered with ever so slight a smile, turning his attention back to the body.


	2. Gen Cabin Pressure: Forgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Martin's birthday. He think everyone's forgotten, but they're actually waiting to surprise him.

 

_Sod it. Who needs them? I certainly don’t. Nope. Don’t need them._ Martin leaned back in his seat and sharply glanced around the empty flight deck. He crossed his arms with a huff. _I’m perfectly happy to just… sit… here…_ He blinked and stared at the endless night sky spread out in front of him. The silence was heavy.

Well, not really silence. A myriad of white noises filled the little room – wind rushing past the plane in flight, the subtle buzz of electric lights, a slightly unsettling rattle coming from one of the windows. Douglas had excused himself to use the loo more than twenty minutes ago. He could hear muffled laughter in the cabin – Douglas’ guffaw, Arthur’s giggle and Carolyn’s airy chuckle.

Martin blinked again. _They must have forgotten. Forgotten, just like everyone else did. Like everyone else always does._ His mind wandered back to his first birthday party. Well, the first one he could remember.

The one he could never forget.

He had been so excited. He’d even made invitations to give to everyone at school. The big day came, the tiny cake (the only one they could afford) was set on the table, the birthday banner his mother had cut out of scrap paper was hung… and no one showed. Not one child came. His mother had tried to be consoling, his father had simply laughed at him. He was six years old.

He could never bring himself to have a party again. For the most part, he simply forgot about his birthday. Every now and then a card would show up from a distant relative, full of meaningless cheery phrases and the occasional fiver. One year, his girlfriend at the time had gotten him a cake. This would have been a nice gesture if he hadn’t found out a week later that she had gotten it out of guilt… she had been cheating on him with her dance partner.

_Every year. Every year it’s the same._ Hot tears had formed at the edges of the captain’s eyes, threatening to spill over. _It’ll never change, Martin. You’ll always be alone. You honestly didn’t think this year would be any different, now did you? You’re only kidding yourself._ He closed his eyes as his body shook with silent sobs. There was laughter in the cabin again, followed by silence.

A knock came on the flight deck door. Martin took a quick breath to regain his composure and began to inspect one of GERTI’s dials rather intently. He really didn’t need Douglas to see him like this.

The knock came again. Martin swore under his breath, then called out, “Are you suddenly incapable of opening a door?” He winced as he realized the words had come out harsher than he’d intended.

“A hand, please, _captain,_ ” came Douglas’ muffled reply.

“Oh for the…” Martin breathed. A knock again. “Alright! I’m coming…” Martin stood and stormed to the flight deck door, wrenching it open. He managed to say, “Now what was so hard abou…” when he was suddenly cut off mid-sentence by an explosion of glitter in his face.

“SURPRISE!” yelled three voices in unison. Martin stared at them, dumbstruck. Douglas looked rather smug (as per usual), Carolyn was smiling and holding a small cake with Martin’s name on it, and Arthur was wearing a particularly silly hat and practically vibrating from excitement. Apparently, he had been the perpetrator of the glitter attack.

“Happy Birthday, Skip!” Arthur grinned, pushing a brightly wrapped package into the stunned man’s hands. “We all went together to get you this! I wanted to get you this brilliant book on otters that I saw at the last Duty Free – it had pictures and maps and words and everything! - but mum said that we…” Arthur trailed off and his smile faltered slightly. Martin still hadn’t moved or said anything. “…are you alright, Skip?”

Three pairs of eyes stared at him. Martin blinked and shook his head slightly as a genuine smile swept across his face. “I’ve never been better.”


	3. Kid!Cabinlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Started as a tumblr prompt, but it kinda morphed into something different.

Martin had never really understood his step-brothers. Mycroft mostly just ignored him, which was to be expected – the elder Holmes was sixteen and Martin was only seven, so they didn’t really have a whole lot in common. Besides, Mycroft was away most of the time - Martin wasn’t really sure where he went - so they didn’t see much of each other.

Sherlock, though… Sherlock confused him. He was only two years older than Martin but whenever anybody - especially Mycroft – was around, Sherlock treated the younger boy like he was nothing. He sneered at him and called him an idiot, wearing that cold mask of indifference he put on for everyone. At dinner with their parents he went out of his way to ridicule anything and everything Martin said.

But when they were alone, Sherlock was a completely different person. He would run through the fields with Martin while they pretended they were aeroplanes. They’d have sword fights with sticks they’d found in the woods, re-enacting the pirate battles they’d seen in the movies. They’d skip rocks, chase rabbits, and catch butterflies, then flop down in a field to stare at the clouds as they went by. Sherlock would pace back and forth in the fort they’d made from blankets and low-hanging branches as he told Martin everything he’d learned from his experiments the day before. Martin always stared in open-mouthed wonder at the things Sherlock knew, and Sherlock grinned at his adoration.

But the instant anyone else was around, the mask snapped back into place.

“Why do you do that, Sherlock?” Martin finally asked one day as they were climbing among the branches of an ancient tree. Minutes before, a young woman had walked past on the weathered hiking trail and Sherlock had pointedly ignored Martin the entire time she was in earshot.

Sherlock paused momentarily with his back to Martin, then continued climbing higher into the tree without answering.

“Sherlock? Did you hear me?” Martin scrambled up onto the next branch. He didn’t have half the grace Sherlock had when he moved - the other boy made the climb look effortless.

Making some indistinct noise in reply, Sherlock burrowed into a crook of the tree and hugged his knees to his chest, head down. Moments later, Martin pulled himself up to the branch that hid his step-brother and faced him, legs swinging free below. “Sherlock?” he asked, tentatively leaning forward. 

The older boy raised his eyes. “They all think I’m a freak… a monster,” came his muffled reply. He paused, then - “They’re afraid of me.”

Martin stopped swinging his legs. “But you’re not a monster…” he said, matter-of-factly. “You’re my brother.”

“Step-brother.”

“Same difference.” Martin started swinging his legs again, lost in thought. After a few moments, he spoke again. “So why do you do it, then? You get all… all quiet and mean and stuff whenever anyone else is around.”

Sherlock averted his eyes. “It makes them leave me alone.”

Martin nodded, he knew what he meant. Everyone was always looking for excuses to look down on everyone else and Sherlock’s intellect painted a bright red target on his back. At least if everyone was afraid of him, they’d think twice about bullying him. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Martin watched as a sparrow hopped around in the thin branches above and smiled as the bird flew off into the setting summer sun. How often he had wondered what it would be like to flap and fly through the air? He gazed after the bird until it was just a speck on the horizon, then turned his attention back to his step-brother. Sherlock had been watching him intently. Martin raised his eyebrows. “What?”

“You were wondering what it would be like to fly off, just like that bird.”

Martin grinned sheepishly, embarrassed. “Well… yeah…” It was no secret he was fascinated by flight. Sherlock had used this fact to ridicule him in front of Mycroft several times.

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again. He flicked his eyes away from Martin, trying to find the right words. When he finally spoke, his voice was slightly broken in a way Martin had never heard before. “I’m… y’know… sorry. About… a-about the stuff that I…”

“It’s okay. I get it.” Martin said quietly. He smiled at his step-brother, eyes full of warmth and understanding. 

Sherlock finally turned his head to meet Martin’s and a small smile spread across his normally cold and detached features. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Martin nodded in the practical way kids do when something has been sufficiently settled. “Now come on,” he announced as he started to slide down from his branch. “I can see fireflies over in that field over there. Didn’t you want to do some sort of experiment with them?”

“Yeah… yeah I did.” Sherlock replied. He slowly unfolded his legs and slipped down through the branches after the only person he’d let see him smile.


	4. Johnlock Fluff

It began with the listless feeling brought on by a Sunday afternoon. The morning had been productive – the flat was tidied, the dishes from the night before were washed and drying by the sink, piles of papers were shuffled into slightly better organized piles of papers. John stood back and admired his handiwork – 221B actually looked presentable now. Well, as presentable as a flat that contained a human skull, several vials of pig’s blood and a Sherlock could ever hope to be.

With a contented sigh, John flopped onto the sofa and grabbed his book from where it was perched on the coffee table. It was a delightfully trashy detective novel, the kind that made Sherlock roll his eyes and mutter about predictability. John loved them. He loved the absurd nature of the crimes, he loved the obligatory romantic soiree, and he especially loved when he was able to solve the mystery before the author intended. He lay back and stretched the full length of the sofa, opened the book and began to read.

It was as he was reading through the author’s rather amusing description of a police crime lab – honestly, had they ever even been to Scotland Yard? – that he heard a discontented grunt from the direction of the kitchen. He smiled without looking up from his book. “Have a good lie-in?”

There was a pause, then – “You moved my Petri dishes.”

“You know the rules, no experiments on the right side of the counter.”

“…tedious.”

“Fundamental.”

“Debatable.”

“Incontrovertible.” John peeked over the top of his book and arched an eyebrow at the man in the kitchen. Sherlock simply huffed and started reorganizing the bacterial cultures, which John counted as a win. He turned his attention back to the book.

A couple chapters later, John was so absorbed in the story ( _she did WHAT with the evidence bags?_ ) that he didn’t notice for several minutes that the flat was quiet. Too quiet. There was no clank of test tubes or soft hiss of a Bunsen burner to be heard. He looked up from his book, glanced to the right and flinched. Sherlock was crouched on the floor by the coffee table, studying John with his Deduction Face. “Jesus, Sherlock… what the hell?”

“We need to go to Bart’s,” answered Sherlock, unfazed.

“ _We_ are not going anywhere.” John turned back to his book.

Sherlock wasn’t going to give up that easily. “I need to pick up the liver that Molly…”

“No, Sherlock.”

“…on Tuesday and run a few…”

“Sherlock.”

“…beside the table or bedpost…”

“ _Sherlock_.” John reached over and put his hand on the detective’s knee, which had the wonderful effect of shutting him up immediately. “That’s better,” he smirked. “Now listen to me. It is Sunday. I spent all morning cleaning this flat. I intend to spend all afternoon being insufferably lazy. So you can either run off to the hospital by yourself to have your way with a dead man’s liver or you can join your boyfriend here on the sofa. Either way, I will not be moving from this spot until well into the evening.”

John could practically see the wheels and gears spinning in Sherlock’s brain, weighing the options and calculating the probability of success for various arguments he could make to get his way. After a moment, Sherlock nodded slightly, conclusion reached. He stood and clambered over John, settling himself against the back of the sofa and cuddling close to the man with the book. John grinned and wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders. “What about your liver?” he teased.

“The amount effort it would take to successfully convince you to leave is higher than I am prepared to endure at present. However, my compulsion to complete the experiment at hand is overshadowed by my aversion to the thought of going without you.” Sherlock sighed. The do-I-have-to-explain-everything-to-you was implied.

John pressed a kiss into the mess of curls beside him. “I love you too,” he chuckled, and returned to his book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this Writing Prompt Generator: http://www.adammaxwell.com/writers-tools/writing-prompts-generator/


	5. Mystrade: Proximity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The ever lovely MystradeDoodles was having an abundance of Mystrade feels during a livestream I did on Saturday, and somehow she talked me into writing something for the pairing. So here you go! Taggles actually writes something other than domestic Mormor!

Greg had lost track of what exactly Sherlock was prattling on about. The consulting detective was pacing back and forth in front of Greg’s desk, spewing something about the case they were investigating. The case that was getting colder and colder by the second. John was, as ever, along for the ride, sitting in a chair across from Greg’s desk and doing his best to stay awake. Sherlock was apparently focusing on the position of the body to the point of obsession and refusing to listen to what anyone else was saying. Greg found himself rubbing his eyes and yawning. Jesus, when was the last time he’d gotten any sleep?

John caught Sherlock’s hand on the next pass and pulled him down into a chair despite the man’s objection. Sherlock opened his mouth to carry on saying something, but John cut him off with a glare and thoughts of his own. Greg just watched the two of them. The way John’s hand never left Sherlock’s, the way Sherlock subconsciously leaned his knee against John’s, how John’s words were calming the man in ways no one else ever could.

It just made Greg green with envy.

 

He glanced at his phone; he hadn’t heard from Mycroft in nearly 36 hours. There wasn’t exactly the best mobile reception in Burma. On top of that, the satellite phones didn’t pass enough of the security clearances and thus could not be used for whatever it was he was doing over there. Greg looked to John and Sherlock, always together, practically inseparable and he was ashamed to admit he felt an anger growing within himself. The case and the lack of sleep were taking their toll and his emotions were running high. He checked his email for the fifteenth time just for something to do. No new messages.

Sherlock was standing and pacing again, demanding the toxicology report. Greg was about to point out that they’d run the damn report twice already with the same results when he felt his mobile buzz in his pocket. Finally. He pulled the phone out and left John and Sherlock to bicker between themselves as he checked the message.

_I shall have to take you to Mandalay on Edgware Road for mohinga when I return._

Greg smiled as he tapped out his reply.  _For what now? And when exactly are you returning?_

_Mohinga, the national dish of the Burmese people. And Thursday._

_It better not be anything like the last time you got a taste for local cuisine and tried to get me to eat a boiled fertilized chicken egg._  Greg nearly gagged at the memory.

_Balut is a staple of Filipino culture and quite delicious._

_Mycroft, there was an entire chicken fetus in that damn thing, beak, feathers and all. Anyway. Thursday? What happened to tonight?_   He couldn’t deny he was disappointed – Thursday was three days away. Mycroft had been in Burma for two weeks now and with the added stress of the last few cases, Greg was nearing a breaking point. It didn’t help that Sherlock and John were approaching a full-out shouting match in his office. He snapped his fingers at the two of them to knock it off and calm down.

_Apologies. There have been complications with the negotiation process and I am needed here longer than I anticipated._

_You’re needed here too, you know. Your brother and his better half are driving me insane at the moment._

A moment later there was a chime from John’s phone and he pulled it from his jacket pocket to check the message. Frowning slightly, he leaned in to whisper something in Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock pulled out his own phone and sent a hasty text of his own, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance. He then abruptly stood and marched out of Greg’s office, leaving John to mutter a hasty goodbye before jogging after him.

 _I don’t know what the hell you said to him, but thank you._  Greg let out a breath of relief. Quiet at last.

_You are welcome, beloved. Now go home. Sleep. The case should not take precedence over your health._

Greg ran a hand over his face. Mycroft was right; this wasn’t healthy, even by Scotland Yard standards.  _Alright, alright. I’m headed home._

_I will call as soon as I am able. Je t’aime._

_Moi aussi, je t’aime._  Sighing, Greg grabbed his coat on the way out of his office. Thursday couldn’t come soon enough.


	6. Gen Cabin Pressure: Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first fanfiction I ever wrote, a little Cabin Pressure drabble.

Martin wasn’t exactly sure whose idea it had been in the first place, but he was definitely sure it was no longer questionably illegal. It was now definitely illegal.

“Post landing checks complete…” Martin’s voice was shaky. “Douglas, are you quite certain no one saw us?” Martin’s eyes shifted back and forth from the container taped to the floor of the flight deck to his first officer sitting in the chair opposite him.

“Quite certain, Captain. As I was quite certain three minutes ago, the last time you asked.”

“But the hard landing nearly destroyed GERTI’s landing gear! And never mind the sparks that were flying from the brakes…” Martin gestured towards the container.

With a smug grin, Douglas walked over to the container in question, unscrewed the lid and poured the contents into a martini glass swiped from the galley. “Well, you did say you wanted it shaken, not stirred…” he remarked as he handed the glass to Martin, who definitely looked like he needed the stiff drink.


	7. John/Greg Bromance: Down the Pub

John bounced his leg nervously as he sat at the bar, his pint already half-empty. He glanced at the clock above the row of liquor behind the counter for what seemed like the seventeenth time in the last two minutes and sighed. What was he so nervous about, anyway? He jerked his head up every time he heard the jangle of bells on the door to the pub, signaling someone’s entrance. Nope. Still not here. He took another swig of his drink.

Fifteen agonizing minutes later, the man he was waiting for finally sauntered into the pub, looking haggard and just slightly ticked off. He smiled when he spotted John, however, and made his way over to sit down on the empty stool beside him. “John,” he acknowledged with a slight nod.

“Greg,” John returned. “Traffic?”

Lestrade grunted in agreement. “Think we both know who to blame for that.” He flagged down the bartender and gave his drink order.

John nodded with a slight smirk. “I know what you mean. Mine tried to convince me that he needed me, me specifically, for some experiment he was running that absolutely, positively had to be completed tonight, without question.” John recalled the pout on Sherlock’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to get his way and it brought a flush to his cheeks.

The bartender brought Greg’s drink and the inspector raised his glass. “To the Holmes boys.”

“And the idiots who love them,” John returned as they clinked their glasses together.

The two men spent the better part of the next three hours bantering back and forth, comparing notes on their respective Holmes and one-upping each other’s anecdotes. Greg moaned about the last time he had  _dared_  to pick up a bottle of wine on his way home because he thought it would make a nice surprise and had simply earned himself a rather lengthy and decidedly snobbish lesson on vintners. John returned with the time he had woken up to find Sherlock crouched at the end of their bed analyzing a severed foot with a pair of calipers and comparing them to John’s own.

John relaxed as the beer started to dull his nerves. He spent so much time with Sherlock - on cases, on the chase, on their bed - it was nice to finally be getting out with someone other than the consulting detective for a change. He had jumped at the chance when Greg had started complaining about Mycroft at the latest crime scene, suggesting a boy’s night out.

Last call came around and the two men settled their tab, stepping out into the London night. Greg indicated where he was parked and John replied that he’d simply walk home from here, it was only a couple blocks.

“Thanks for this,” Greg held out his hand and John shook it. “Same time next week?”

John nodded. “Oh god, yes.”


End file.
